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... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.

Anna Akhmatova

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Anna Akhmatova
Age: 76 †
Born: 1889
Born: June 23
Died: 1966
Died: March 5
Author
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Poet
Translator
Writer
Odesa
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko
Anna Achmatova
Anna Ahmatova
Anna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova
Childhood
Eternal
Stars
Everyone
Bounty
Form
Vigilance
Whole
Rewarded
World
Inheritance
Shared

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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.
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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.
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Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me.
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Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.
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